


As Long as We're Going Down

by wangler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotp, Episode Tag, Episode: s03e19 Letharia Vulpina, Gen, Hugs, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Stiles, you told -- it told me that you, that it needs pain," Scott says, nudging one arm around Stiles carefully, sort of prying him from the wall. "Don't give it power. You have to try to fight it."</p>
<p>Stiles takes a deep breath after four aborted tries. "Like Artax?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	As Long as We're Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place immediately after episode 3x19, Letharia Vulpina. I didn't tag it Scott/Stiles because it isn't explicitly Scott/Stiles but if you ask me it's probably Scott/Stiles.

Stiles doesn't stay unconscious for long. He wakes up struggling he's fighting his way to the surface of water. His palms slip on the wet floor and he gasps like he can't catch his breath. Scott reaches for him instinctively.  
  
"Wait," Deaton says, placing a strong arm across Scott's middle, right where his muscles and organs still ache from healing.  
  
"He needs help," Scott says, anger flaring. He doesn't know if he's mad at Deaton or the nogitsune or Stiles.  
  
Before Scott can say anything else, Stiles makes it to his hands and knees and looks up. His eyes go wide and he stops breathing for seconds that stretch on and on. And then, in a violent motion, he's in the corner of the room, dry-heaving into a wastebasket.  
  
"Is that from the fox poison?" Scott asks Deaton quietly.  
  
Deaton lowers his arm. "No," he says. He sounds tired. "It's not."  
  
Stiles wipes his mouth and crams his body into the corner, his knees drawn up close. He presses the back of his hand against his mouth and makes a hitched, breathy sound Scott recognizes from when they were kids, and a few times when Stiles drank too much and got really emotional over songs on the radio or his love life or on one horrible night, his mom.  
  
"I'm going to drive Kira home now," Deaton says. And then they're alone.  
  
"Stiles."  
  
That doesn't get a response.  
  
Feeling unexpectedly nervous, Scott approaches with his hands out, palms first, claws in.  
  
When Scott gets close enough to touch, Stiles makes a sound. It's definitely supposed to be "don't," but the noise gets lost in Stiles' throat like he's choking on it. Stiles starts to look up and his gaze catches at Scott's middle. He flinches and turns his face to the side, his eyes squeezing shut.  
  
Scott looks down. There's a ragged hole in his shirt, right below his navel. "Stiles," he says softly, like he's talking to one of the scared dogs on Deaton's exam table. "You didn't do that. The oni did."  
  
"No." Stiles makes an aborted twisting gesture, his hand shaking, and a shudder runs down Scott's back. It's only been an hour. He can still feel the metal scraping against his spine. Stiles' grip was so sure, so strong, when he moved the blade. Stiles' hand was so cold against his shoulder, against his face.  
  
"It still wasn't you." Scott rubs his belly absently, like he can smooth away the phantom hurt.  
  
"It felt good, what it did to you," Stiles says, voice thick and sick-sounding. "Scott, it felt good."  
  
Scott glances at the door, wishing Deaton hadn't left so quickly. He sinks to a crouch. "Do you feel good now?"  
  
"No!" Stiles looks at Scott, right at him, his bloodshot eyes scared and angry all at the same time. He looks away again, sharply, like somebody slapped him. "No," he repeats, fidgeting with jerky movements. The motion is familiar, anxious, and very Stiles. Scott would find it relieving if Stiles didn't look he was miming tearing his own own chest and gut open with his fingers.  
  
"Okay," Scott says, breathing out a jittery laugh like a peace offering. "See? It's okay. If you were still into it I'd be kind of worried."  
  
"You should be worried," Stiles says miserably.  
  
Scott sighs. Worried isn't a big enough word. "I am."  
  
Nearly a minute goes by before Stiles hugs his arms around his middle tightly, like he's trying to force himself to stay still. He exhales with a shudder, like the end of a long, gross crying jag, and stares at his knees. "Listen to me," he says, low and hurried. "You have to kill it. You have to."  
  
"Stiles, there's no--"  
  
"I don't think it'll let me do it," Stiles goes on, like he can't hear anything but his own feverish voice. "It's like... like it has an override switch."  
  
"What? Dude. You didn't try--"  
  
"But it's sleeping right now. It's... I think it's asleep. I can feel it." Stiles' voice goes thin, the way it did on the phone when he called from coyote den. He shoves his fists against his eyes, but not fast enough to stop the tears that skip down his cheeks. "It's not gone. It's gonna wake up. It's gonna be so mad, Scott."  
  
Scott's never heard Stiles sound this afraid. Not ever. Not until this past week. "We'll stop it," he says, reaching out cautiously, his stomach feeling hollow and weird over the way Stiles has started to rock back and forth.  
  
"You have to. You have to do it. You have to stop it. Scott--"  
  
Scott tries to pull him close, into a hug. He expects a fight, for Stiles to push him away, but Stiles flattens back against the wall and goes rigid like Scott touched him with a live wire.  
  
"Stiles," Scott sighs out, sore and exasperated. "I'm not going to hurt you." The words feel thick in his mouth. They're truer than he wants to admit. He thinks about tenth grade ethics class and a problem about a train speeding toward a kid on the tracks and choosing one over the other. At the time it had been easy to give the right answer: Sacrifice the kid to save all the people on the train.  
  
Except now it's real and he knows exactly what he's supposed to do. He could pull Stiles into his arms right now, and he could break his neck. It'd be fast. Just as fast as what Deaton uses to put dogs down. But he isn't going to do it. He's going to have to find another way to save the train. There's always a plan B.  
  
"Stiles, you told -- it told me that you, that it needs pain," Scott says, nudging one arm around Stiles carefully, sort of prying him from the wall. "Don't give it power. You have to try to fight it."  
  
Stiles takes a deep breath after four aborted tries. "Like Artax?"  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Seriously? Just add that to the watch list," Stiles mumbles. All the momentum he'd used to get away from Scott reverses, and in a shuddering instant, he's hugging Scott tight. He makes a soft, sad sound that's warm against Scott's neck. "Scott, I'm sorry. Please. I'm so sorry."  
  
"You're not giving it more power, remember?"  
  
Stiles laughs mirthlessly. He's getting Scott's neck all wet. "I suck at this."  
  
"No, you're doing great," Scott says. He frowns, feeling Stiles' fingers making their way to the hole in the back of his shirt.  
  
"Hurting people makes it stronger. It feels..." Stiles' fingers reach the bare skin just to the left of Scott's spine, where the skin is still thin and sensitive.  
  
"You don't have to tell me," Scott says, shivering. He squirms, adjusting Stiles so that they're not in such an awkward embrace on the hard concrete floor. It doesn't hurt that Stiles can't reach his back as easily that way.  
  
"I don't know what's real." Stiles is whispering, like he's half-asleep. "I don't know what's me."  
  
The front door slams and Stiles jumps, pushing out of Scott's arms. Scott can hear his heartbeat spiking. It's a hollow, rabbit-quick sound.  
  
Scott feels hollow too, dizzied by how much he immediately wants Stiles back in his arms, close like they're eight again, hiding under the bed together on a reconnaissance mission against the trolls in the the ductwork.  
  
Deaton appears in the doorway, his skin gleaming from the rain outside. He looks from Scott to Stiles, his mouth a grim line.  
  
"Scott," he says, watching Stiles. "Don't let him go to sleep.  
  
Scott follows Deaton's gaze, terrified he'll see the coldness again, that the spirit will be back already, twisting Stiles' face and eyes into a mask of cruelty.  
  
But Stiles' expression is blank. "I'll stay awake," he says hoarsely, his fingers dragging in a slow pull across his middle.  
  



End file.
